


Hall of the Mountain King

by Mina Lightstar (ukefied)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Purgatory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukefied/pseuds/Mina%20Lightstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently, only Benny may hum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hall of the Mountain King

**Author's Note:**

> Purgatory, pre-S8. This is my FuckYeahDeanBenny Secret Santa for jingleackles, combining two of their prompts: the singing prompt, and the power play prompt. Uses roughly the same rules/assumptions as my other Purgatory fics.

In Purgatory, it doesn’t pay to be a picky eater. Dean’s menu usually consists of small, edible flowers and water. Every now and then, they’ve been lucky enough to stumble upon a nest of something vaguely resembling meat. Well, Dean thinks, maybe “lucky” isn’t the word for it. At least now he has a durable waterskin, reducing their number of stops during the day. He tries not to dwell on the fact that he drinks from a dragon’s bladder.

For the record, dragon tastes gamey.

Dean shifts, trying to get comfortable on the bumpy log he’s using as a chair. He’s got a small fire going — normally against their rules, but tonight is exceptionally chilly. He’s watching the flames dance, chewing on one of the blue flowers and pretending it’s a burger. God, he’d walk over Sammy for a burger.

Behind him, the underbrush crashes and snaps. Dean is ninety percent sure it’s Benny, but he tenses up all the same. It wouldn’t be the first time trolls crashed their campfire. When the newcomer gets closer, Dean can hear Benny muttering, and he relaxes. Benny’s been gone for a while, but he’s empty-handed when he pushes into their camp.

Dean stifles a sigh. “No luck?” He swallows the flower; it’s bland all the way down.

“The one time we want those little critters to come out, they’re shy.” Benny drops his weapon by the log and sits down next to Dean. It’s a tight fit, and their legs end up pressed together from hip to boot.

Most nights are like this. If they are lucky to have a successful hunt, Benny would feed on the mammal’s blood and Dean would try to salvage some of the meat. If they can’t find any suitable Purgatory critters, they enjoy the fire for a while before putting it out. More often than not, Dean and Benny huddle together with empty stomachs, trying to get enough sleep to compensate for the hunger.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s started humming until Benny elbows him a few bars into _Seek & Destroy._ “What?”

“What are you doing?”

Dean shrugs one shoulder. “It calms me down. Gives me something to focus on.”

Benny clicks his tongue. “It’s annoying.”

“ _You_ hum.”

“I hum _classics,_ ” Benny says, pulling a face. “What the hell are you singing?”

Dean sits up straighter. “Uh, it _is_ a classic, thank you. It’s Metallica.”

Now Benny’s face twists into a sneer. “What’s a Metallica?”

“Oh, man,” Dean says. “That is just sad. Your ticket to Purgatory was stamped before then.”

Benny shakes his head. “Thank heavens for small favors, brother.”

“No,” Dean insists. “No, it’s sad.”

“Only thing sad ‘round here is your taste in music.”

And it is _on._ Dean knocks Benny’s leg with his own, good-naturedly — but Benny shoves back with more force. Dean’s reacting our of reflex before he realizes it, and soon he and Benny are rolling off the log into the leaves.

They spend most of their waking hours battling some enemy or another. One would think they couldn’t stand the thought of any more fighting. This feels good, though — to brawl over a stupid, inconsequential thing like musical preferences. It’s strangely soothing to know that even when Benny’s cold hand is pushing against Dean’s chin, Benny won’t actually _hurt him._

When they stop wrestling, Dean’s got his face scrunched into the dirt and one arm twisted painfully against his back. Benny’s kneeling over him, triumphant. Dean gives a token struggle, the rustle of leather complementing the fire’s crackle. Benny’s grip tightens.

“This is what happens when you cross the Mountain King,” Benny says.

Dean huffs a laugh, body still tingling with adrenaline. “His Majesty should try some AC/DC.”

Benny leans down. Dean winces when it puts more pressure on his arm. “No more singing,” he says into Dean’s ear. His voice carries an undertone of danger.

“That a threat?” Dean asks, squirming. Benny’s quiet for a moment — too quiet, actually, and Dean starts to think something is wrong. Benny holds him tighter, leather scrunching in his grip. “Hey,” Dean says after a tense silence. “Benny, you okay?”

Benny groans, low and desperate. “No,” he says.

Dean plans to wait him out. Sometimes in Purgatory, a guy just needs a minute. But when cold lips touch the back of Dean’s ear, he surges to life. “Don’t!” he snaps, trying to wrench away.

“Don’t?” Benny parrots, sounding frustrated. He groans again, resting his forehead on Dean’s shoulder. His grip has loosened, though, and Dean struggles to turn around. Benny lets him. “Don’t?”

On his back now, Dean can see how bedraggled Benny looks. His eyes are crazed, his fangs descended, and he lost his hat in their scuffle. “Benny,” Dean says, warily. “Get a hold of yourself.”

Benny laughs, but it sounds choked up. “I’m starving. Been too long.”

“I know,” Dean says. “For me, too.” He starts to push himself up, wanting to put some distance between them.

Benny moves fast, pinning his shoulders to the dirt with more force than necessary. “No,” he sneers distastefully. “Not for you. You get plants and water and sometimes, even a successful hunt. What do I get?”

“The pleasure of my company,” Dean says, because he’s always been too much of a smart-ass.

Benny bares his fangs, his eyes bright with bloodlust. His fingers dig into Dean’s biceps even though his layers of clothing. “I hunt the best for you, because you’re so damn picky, and this is the thanks I get?” His gaze drops to Dean’s open collars, to the small patch of bare skin. “When do I get a gourmet meal, huh, brother?”

Dean gapes at him. “Are your seriously trying to _guilt me_ into letting you feed on me?”

Benny licks his lips. “Just sayin’. I think I’ve been real good. I’m starving. I think I’ve earned a taste.”

“Go to hell,” Dean says, and tries to buck the fucking vampire off of him.

Benny’s faster still, spurred on by his thirst for blood. He moves like lightning, lying all two hundred pounds of himself along Dean’s prone form, one arm locked against Dean’s throat, keeping his head back. Benny’s cold tongue licks a stripe under his jaw and Dean swears. He tries bucking again, but Benny might as well be a sack of bricks.

“Just a taste,” Benny says into his skin, saliva making it tingle. “C’mon, brother. I won’t hurt you — will even make it good.”

“I doubt it,” Dean says, swallowing against Benny’s forearm. “Thought you needed me to open your portal.”

“Told you,” Benny reiterates, “not gonna hurt you.”

Dean’s got about a thousand smart-ass responses for that, but they all die in his throat when he feels the prick of Benny’s fangs. And fuck him, it _does_ hurt — a sharp sting and the sharp teeth are sinking in. Benny’s tongue was cold, but his fangs are hot, almost burning. Dean’s feeling lightheaded before Benny even starts drinking. He doesn’t move, not even when Benny moves the arm from his neck. What if he starts to struggle and Benny rips his throat open by accident? So he lies there, head tipped back, riding a wave of disconnection. He can feel hot little pulsations as Benny drinks, slow and steady. He’s humming, too. Fucker. Dean would say something, but he couldn’t string two words together if he tried.

The one time he does try to talk, it comes out half a croak, half a moan. Benny pulls away, licking at the puncture wounds he’s made. He gets up on all fours so he can look Dean in the eye. He looks like a new man, which is more than Dean can say for himself. He feels like a tingly, lightheaded mess, and meets Benny’s gaze with his eyes at half-mast.

“Too much,” he manages to get out.

“Nah,” Benny says, patting his cheek. “You’re just not used to it.”

“No shit,” Dean retorts, prompting Benny to chuckle.

“Here,” he says, moving over and rearranging their positions. “I’ll thank you.”

Dean couldn’t move if his life depended on it. Benny handles him like a rag doll, pulling his back flush with Benny’s front. “What—” he tries.

“Shh,” Benny says. “Get these out of the way.” He pulls at Dean’s jacket and button-down, sliding them halfway off, leaving them to bunch at his elbows. Dean shivers at the sudden draft, but the more pressing concern is that Benny is now going for his belt.

“Benny,” Dean says, squirming.

“Be quiet.” His fly is open now, and Benny reaches in to palm his soft cock. Up until this point, it had been pretty uninterested in this whole affair. Now that Dean’s tingling from head to toe, with a hand down his pants to boot, his cock is definitely perking up.

Dean licks his dry lips. “What are you doing?” Then he yelps; Benny squeezed him, the motherfucker.

“You don’t listen too well, do you?” Benny hand is cold but his erection is hot. One on the other makes for an exhilarating counterpoint. “I said I’d make it good.”

Dean gives a soft snort, but can’t help but move his hips with Benny’s practiced hand. “I can’t move my arms,” he says, gaze trained on Benny’s strokes. It chafes a little, Benny’s hands callused from battle, but the roughness feels good.

“I know.” He can hear the grin in Benny’s voice. This time, Dean doesn’t — can’t — offer any resistance when Benny turns his head. He knows what’s coming, but doesn’t even bother shouting when Benny’s fangs sink back in. He winces at the prick, but his cock jumps in Benny’s hand, prompting him to smile against Dean’s skin.

Dean lies in Benny’s arms, helpless, while he drinks Dean’s blood and rubs Dean’s cock. Dean wants to say enough, it’s too much, but all he feels is euphoria, drunk on pleasure and blood loss. He’s not sure how it came to this. He’s not sure where it will go from here.

When he comes, the force of it almost finishes him. The world goes dim, dimmer, black.

He wakes up still in Benny’s arms, still trussed up and undone, so it can’t have been that long. He freezes up when he registers that Benny is licking his neck, swiping his tongue over the puncture marks over and over again. “Stop.”

Benny does. “I didn’t drink you after you passed out,” he says. “That’s just bad manners.”

“ _You’re_ bad manners,” Dean mutters, and that doesn’t make any sense. “Help me.” He wiggles, and Benny helps him shrug back into his coat and button-down. Soon he’s settled in front of the warm fire, bundled up with even Benny’s hat on his head.

“Take it easy. Go slow until your body replenishes itself.” Benny grabs one of the waterskins and tosses the other into Dean’s lap. “I’ll go get you some more o’this to drink. You polish off that one.”

“We’re going to talk about this,” Dean says with surprising strength, considering he can barely sit up.

Benny pauses before leaving their campsite. “I know, brother. We will.”

~End.


End file.
